Christian's Patron
by Lady McClellan
Summary: Added a new chapter! New chapter 9 just came out of nowhere.
1. Default Chapter

Christian's Patron 

Disclaimer: The characters and the Moulin Rouge belong to Baz Lurman.  Uncle Leonard belongs to me.  

Please, please, please review?  Please?

It was of course, all my fault.  In 500 years one's perspective on the lives of normal people and perception of the passage of time tends to degrade.  Avoiding the biggest problem of immortality, madness, had been my primary goal.  To this end I had appointed myself caretaker of my sister's family.  Down through the centuries I protected, influenced, and generally meddled in the lives of her decedents.  By being the rich, eccentric uncle who shows up every generation or so to mend fortunes or promote one branch of the family or the other, I gave my continued existence a purpose outside of simply surviving.  However, scholarly projects would capture my interest and I would leave the family to fend for themselves for decades.  One of these projects took me away, and so I am the one truly to blame for what happened.  I had tried to avoid the problems that seemed to crop up from disappearances, by narrowing my focus to just one young man, and by 1899 I had done so  – my nephew, Christian Fraser.

Of course he is not exactly my nephew, but at my age who counts?  I went off on one of my world exploration jaunts and when I returned home discovered that my favorite niece had grown up and been married to a man more than twice her age (you see what problems my absence can cause?).  Needless to say I was furious.  And before I could act to remedy the problem she had given him a son and died shortly thereafter.  Unable to save the mother I devoted much of my time to the raising of the son.  He was the youngest of four boys, and the older ones were all contemptuous of him.  Whenever I could I would appear at the family doorstep with presents – copies of Shakespeare and other playwrights, paper and paint, and when his aptitude turned to writing, a typewriter.  I told him stories about painters I had met, musicians I knew - bohemians who would start a creative revolution one day. 

The boy ate up the attention and despite the indifference of his brothers and the control of his father I managed to instill some self-belief in him, it was the least I could do to make up for my miserable desertion of his mother.  And of course every day he grew more and more like her – his big eyes, sweet smile and glossy black hair were all from her.  Likewise his lighthearted approach to life and his spirit of adventure were gifts from his mother as well.  He was stubborn, and often single-minded in pursuit of a goal – clearly something of his father, but it was these imperfections that made me love him all the more.

I did not spend all my time there of course.  Most of my investments and many of my friends were in Paris and it was there I spent most of my time.  Like many gentlemen, especially those who do not have to deal with a wife, my nights were spent primarily in nightclubs.  Not only did I enjoy the dancing and the spectacle, but also these were excellent feeding grounds.  The older courtesan who is slowly loosing her livelihood was easy prey, though I mostly felt sad for such creatures and often passed them by.  By far my favorite victims in these places were the greedy businessmen and viscous creatures who used the excuse that the women were whores to abuse them.  No hunt was so delicious as the one that resulted in some rotten-souled bastard dying in a filthy alley knowing that his own evil had brought about his demise.

Thus my greatest pleasure led to my greatest discovery – Satine.  Oh she wasn't Satine when I met her, no not yet.  At that time she was no more than seventeen, and had spent less than a year as a can-can dancer.  Had I met her before then I most assuredly would have taken her out of that life, she was too precious and too talented to be wasted in the bordellos.  There was nothing I could do to save her from that life now, she would have to achieve fame in performance, only then could society forgive her for being a courtesan first.  I did make sure that she left the seedy little place I met her at and came to the attention of Zidler at the Moulin Rouge.  Like me, one viewing of her performance and he was under her spell.  So, to the Moulin she went and dancing and singing lessons followed, along with learning how to read and write.  

She was oddly stubborn about the last two, "Uncle Len, why on Earth do I need to read and write?  Neither one will make me a better dancer or singer."  Those big blue eyes looked imploringly into mine, begging me to let her go.  I shook my head at her.

"Satine my dearest, do you want to be a dancer all your life?"  I didn't ask if she wanted to be a courtesan, I'm easily distracted, but not stupid, "Don't you want to be a REAL actress some day?"

"A real actress…" She breathed barely loud enough to be heard.

"Of course!  Your name will be on the top of the bill, someday, you'll see…" I kissed her on the forehead, as far from her throat as I could make myself touch her. Leaving Satine safely ensconced at the Moulin I returned to England to visit my nephew.  Christian at nineteen held only a hint of the charm he would hold as a true adult.  Pale and gangly, his thick hair hanging in greasy tendrils across his forehead, he had reached his full height without putting any extra flesh on his limbs to balance it out.  Only his eyes held the beauty of his childhood and gave some hint of the man who would immerge from this gangly youth.  Accompanying his lack of physical attraction his manner had deteriorated into one of bitter frustration that made nearly every word that escaped the hole that passed for a mouth in his pimpled visage a sound of shrill anger laced with nasty sarcasm.  In short, he was rapidly turning into his father.

This could not be tolerated.  One of my own shortcomings is a sever lack of patience.  So just two nights into my visit I invited the boy out with me on the pretense of going to a play, and then simply kidnapped him.  The carriage took us to the train station where I, with a shameful disregard for my nephew's dignity, simply mentally overpowered him, sleepwalked him onto the train and took him north to our family home for a long overdue visit.  

It took just three nights to make our way to Scotland, but I swear they were the longest nights of my half-millennium of life.  Christian managed to make sarcasm into a new art form.  I had no idea there were so many ways in which train-travel, scenery, people, food, and all facilities there on and related to or services provided by were lacking.  He was too hot, he was too cold, why was I up only at night, why was I taking him up north, and on and on and on until I slipped away to sleep in the oversized trunk I brought for that purpose, with not the slightest tinge of guilt.  

Still, I resolved that the boy was not going to embarrass me in front of our relations and sat with him in the last hour of our journey.  He was in fact now quiet, staring morosely out the window, occasionally scribbling abysmally gloomy poetry into his notebook.

"Chris…?"  I began hesitantly.

Without looking up, "Yes Uncle?"  He sighed heavily, as one forced to endure the company of the terminally boring and stupid.

"You will turn around, face me, and sit up straight when I am talking to you."  My voice left no room for argument, even without my powers of influence, and he obeyed me instantly.  "I have indulged your self-absorption on this trip because I did feel rather badly about the time I've been away and you've been alone with your father.  You must understand, however, that you are not the only person in the world that I care about."  I doubted that this opening statement would have much of an effect, but to my surprise he looked embarrassed and hung his head, his pale cheeks coloring with shame.

"I know.  I've been behaving dreadfully, but I just couldn't seem to stop myself.  And I have to admit," He looked up at me through his hair, "I was just a little nervous that this was some punishment Father had dreamed up."

Snorting I laughed, "As far as I am concerned your father can go hang.  The only good thing he's done in his life is give life to you.  In fact, had it not been for your most recent behavior, I would have thought you sprung from your mother alone.  But I don't think the damage is permanent and that is why we are visiting your mother's family, to cure this gloom you've developed.  That means no more complaining, no whining about how London is better, nothing but polite respect and honest curiosity, understand?"

"Yes Uncle."  He answered morosely.  When my mouth thinned and I gave him a rather nasty glare he sat up straighter.  "Yes Uncle." He repeated in a much more convincing voice.

"And one more thing, you must at least make the attempt at being cheerful."  I reached out and tipped up his chin with one finger, looking into his eyes with the compassion I felt for his youth and ill treatment.

He gave me the ghost of his former brilliant smile, "I will make the attempt, I promise."


	2. Serendipity

Disclaimer – See chapter one.  Even though we are visiting Scotland in this part, I'm not going to write the character voices in a dialect, its just too distracting.  

Serendipity

I would be lying if I said that Christian improved the minute we got off the train.  His aunt and uncle and two cousins were there to meet us and although he greeted them with complete civility, he said almost nothing else.  To be fair to him it was raining, but since it rains nearly year-round, neither of us ought to have been surprised.  And it was the middle of the night after a long and exhausting train ride so one could understand a certain lack of spirit at that point.  Still, his behavior towards his aunt was uncalled for.

Mathilda greeted us with her usual vigor, taking my hand in her soft plump ones with a smile that made one just glad to be alive.  Christian she drew directly into her ample bosom and squeezed him tightly, nearly forcing all the air out of his lungs in a single instant.  He gasped out loud and gave me a look of pure malice until she released him.  She pinched his cheek and laughed up at him, "Why just look at you young Chris!  Gone and gotten so tall!  But you've no got a spare ounce on ye!  Well that's no trouble, we'll feed ye up good and proper, put some meat on those long bones a'fore we send ye home."  

She patted his cheek and turned away. I could see her resisting the urge to pinch his cheek again while he was cringing in anticipation of it – all the while trying to_ look _like he wasn't cringing.  I barely kept myself from laughing.

His cousins greeted him with nods and took his bags.  Murtaugh took his arm and towed him along in his wife's wake, greeting him in a more sedate though no less warm manner.  They did have a carriage to take us back to the manor house, but it was nothing like one in London.  While in good repair, the contraption was old and cushions inside thrice replaced.  We all crowded into the one small coach, and I could see Christian fighting to not make derogatory observations about it.

And that was how he continued to behave for the next week, civil, but clearly disapproving of the primitive surrounding I had dragged him off to.  I was beginning to believe that he was irredeemably lost, when one evening I had just come in to find him in the library scribbling in his notebook and looking up cautiously now and then to make sure no one was there to see.  Keeping myself in the shadows I made my way over to see what it was that he was writing.  Just as I was about to step out and peer over his shoulder, the door slammed open and Mathilda bustled in.  Christian closed his book with a snap, but wasn't fast enough to hide it from her.

"Now dearest, what have ye got there that you're workin' on?  I've seen you with that book wherever you go!" She put her hands on her hips and raised her brows, looking down at him expectantly.

He clutched the book to his chest as though it were made of gold, "Oh! Uh, Aunt I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"-Mean to what lad?  Do you think you're insulting us by writing?  What nonsense!"  She rolled her eyes dramatically and laughed.

"Well, no, but I didn't want you to think that I, well, you see…F-father always says-"

"Ha!  Bollocks to your father.  If there is a person in this world who can suck the life out of a room, its that man!"  She shook her head and took his hand, leading him over to the sofa, and then pulling him down to sit beside her.  "Listen to me lad, I don't know what that man has been telling you, but around here I want you to write every minute you find time for it.  Life is for the living!  If the things you write are unflattering to some, so be it, truth will always have value.  But you must learn to write about beauty as well.  Beauty is not just the mountain crags around here covered with green (she had doubtless see him outside watching the landscape and seen him fill pages on it), it's the smile a man gives to a wife he's loved for twenty years, the pride you see in a poor woman's eyes when she's able to give her child a treat, and the happiness that child feels to be given something that you wouldn't give a second thought."  Patting his hand she stood up, "You're young lad, so write about truth and beauty, write about the freedom you long for, but remember you can have none of those things, or they will be meaningless without love."  Before she could leave the room Christian leapt to his feet.

"Aunt Mattie –"

"Yes dear?"

"Thank you."

She nodded wisely, "You're welcome."

After that Christian improved rapidly, he spent less time writing gloomy poetry and unflattering observations about his cousins and more time exploring the countryside, riding with his cousins or working on the estate with them.  His smile and laughter came back and he once more chattered merrily at me every evening about what he was writing and what he wanted to do with his life.  His health and his outlook improving, I took my leave, letting his aunt and her brood take over his recovery.

Back in Paris…

After a quick visit with my bankers it was back to Moulin Rouge to check in on Satine.  She was one of my little projects over the years that kept me living instead of merely existing.  At the Moulin she flourished.  In just two years she had become the star, her natural talent shining through above all the rest.  I was glad to hear it because it saved her from the worst clients and Zidler was anxious to protect his little diamond investment so he made it clear that she was not to be hurt by her customers.  Still I longed to get her out of that place and onto the stage as a real actress.

A chance meeting at a coffee shop led me to Toulouse and my plan to save Satine was in motion.  The wicked little dwarf, as one of his many creative endeavors, was trying to get a play produced.  He had put together a surprisingly talented group of other Bohemians to write a show that would showcase their ideals and was now looking for a theatre to perform their show and a financier to back it.  When I suggested Satine to star in the production Toulouse went wild for the idea and I had a path for her to follow out of prostitution.  However, when I met his little group and listened to their ideas, (and met the writer – a more insufferable creature I never hope to meet again) I was more than a little worried.  There was the germ of a good idea in there, but with so many artists (and people who thought they were artists) giving their input, it appeared the aim of the show would be lost in silly plot devises and moronic songs. (( Author's note – and what the heck am I doing here?  Making fun of myself I guess. )) 

The little group needed inspiration.  A single artist should be directing their talents.  That person should have been Toulouse, but his talent lay in inspiring others, not directing them to produce.  He had a vision for his own art, but not for others.  Where would I find the person to lead this little group?  That of course was the moment my weekly letter from Christian arrived, telling me he had returned to London and had had a huge fight with his father about the direction his life was going.  He wanted to leave London and go somewhere his father could not control him.  Serendipity, thy name is Christian!


	3. Breaking Away

Disclaimer – See part one.

Breaking Away

I arrived back in London just three days after Christian.  His father was already furious with me for spiriting the boy away – hard to start some one off as a bank clerk when they are hiking in the highlands. So I reasoned that letting them have more than a day or two alone would be disastrous.  Upon entering his father's study, I was not at all surprised to see Christian standing off to one side, staring at the wall, while his father stood behind his desk, glaring at the young man's back.

His gaze shifted to me immediately and I was amazed to discover that the wrath coming from his eyes could chill even my jaded self.  It was only for a moment of course and I instantly saw the fun I could have with the man.  "Calvin!  Good to see you again old man!" I charged his desk with guns of wit blazing,  "It's been years, how are you?"  Reaching out I seized one of the hands he had raised in defense to ward off my attack and pumped it up and down with ferocious good humor.

Pulling his hand from mine as soon as humanly possible without deliberately seeming ill mannered, he retreated a step back from my initial assault.  "As well as can be expected my lord, and, ahem, yourself?"

I grinned with enthusiasm, "Capitol my good man, just capitol!  But please, none of this 'lordship' business Calvin, you know I'm Leonard to my family."  For a moment he turned pale and looked about to faint.  Then he recovered himself and nodded seriously, hands behind his back and willed himself to show only a calm grave expression – I was impressed.  I could not however, allow such a repost to have any visible effect on me and only retained my genial smile.  "Good then, I'm glad we are on such excellent terms." 

I turned to Christian, "And how is my young nephew doing?  Get bored with the highlands and come home where its much more exciting my lad?"  The boy turned to face me and I saw that my best hopes in taking him north had been realized.  Where before he had been all skinny limbs and moody glances, the time away from this gloomy house had restored him.  Gone entirely were his brooding looks, childish manners and scarecrow appearance to be replaced by bright eyes, fierce determination, and glowing health that made my heart nearly burst with pride. 

"Uncle!"  He cried, seizing my hand and shaking it heartily, leaning in to embrace me, "I'm so glad to see you, and I was very grateful to receive your letters, did you get mine?"

"Yes, every one, thank you." I couldn't get over my pleasure at seeing him looking both so grown-up and so cheerful at the same time.  "So what are you going to do with yourself now?  Ready to take over the world yet?"

"With no education to speak of and no trade?  This wastrel won't be taking over anything, much less a world."  Calvin sneered, his thin upper lip curling up, making his hawk nose even more pronounced, if that were possible.  

Christian lifted his chin and holding his arms straight at his sides, his hands clenched into fists, stepped up to take over the battle I had been waging.  "I have a trade Father, I'm going to be a writer."

"Oh yes!  A writer!  A trash novelist writing about useless fantasy!"

"Nothing of the sort!  I'll write about truth, beauty, freedom, and something you have no concept of, love."

Calvin came stalking out from behind the desk, really incensed, on the attack now that an apparently weaker adversary had taken the field.  He flung up his hands in a true rage, looming over the boy in an attempt to intimidate him as he had so many times before.  "Love!  Always this ridiculous obsession with love!  You are a fool, you will end up as nothing, a penniless nothing, forgotten and poor."

I expected Christian to quail at this assault, but his sterner side now appeared.  He didn't back down an inch, but glared back at his father.  "I will not!  I shall be famous and admired and even if I'm not rich, I will have lived a little instead of rotting away in some tomb of an office."  He whirled suddenly to me, "I want to go to Paris Uncle!  That's where all the true bohemian revolutionaries are.  There I'll be able to – "

"Absolute rubbish, I forbid it!  You'll end up at the Moulin Rouge, wasting your life with a can-can dancer!"

"And it would be a waste if I met a woman I could love and lived a happy life?"

"Happiness?  With a whore?  With a can-can dancer from Montemartre – that village of sin, who will seduce you, make you believe that she loves you, then take your money and leave you with nothing?"  Have you gone completely mad?" 

"How could she take all my money?  You've said I'll go without a cent from you father, so there's nothing to fear."  Christian folded his arms across his chest and looked his father right in the eye; his jaw firm and I nearly gave myself away by whooping with joy.

Instead I decided to defuse the situation.  To this day I'm not entirely sure why, perhaps I hoped that Calvin might some day wish to reconcile with the boy or visa versa and I didn't want to block any of Christian's options.  And while it is often true that I'm a thoughtless bastard, I don't believe in actually ruining a person's life if I don't have to.

"Now lad!  Please, let's not get into a shouting match." I put one arm around his stiff shoulders, slightly disconcerted to realize that I had to reach up to do so, "I came over to invite you out to see the opera with me this evening.  Why don't you and I go out, see the show, eat something, and by then you and your father will be able to calm down and talk this out rationally?"

To my surprise, the boy didn't relax one bit.  He turned his back on his father and kept his shoulders stiff, dropping his hands to his sides. "I'd love to go out Uncle, thank you for the offer, but father and I have had this talk before, there is nothing more to say, so there is no reason to come back."  He turned back to regard his father calmly, "I've some money saved up and some from mother, so I'll leave in the morning and you won't have to worry about me taking up space anymore."  I saw a flicker of emotion in Calvin's eyes that might have been sorrow, but I couldn't be sure.

"Fine then!"  He closed the distance with his son and shouted in his face, "Go, and don't think you can come crawling back here to me when you destroy yourself with women and drink!"

"Ha!  Not a chance!  You'll not have to concern yourself with me ever again Father!" So saying Christian whirled about and marched from the room and we heard him climbing the stairs just seconds later.

Turning my eyes to Calvin, I could see he was still seething with rage, but I could see pain there too.  It's never easy to live your life as a regular person with some one like Christian around.  I imagined that for Calvin it was like having a nice ordinary garden where plain, easy to maintain plants grew and waking up one morning to find an enormous wild rose right in the middle of everything.  You could prune it back and train it somewhat, but you never knew when it would decide to take over half the garden in one night.  The worst part was that after a time you came to love it because it was wild and beautiful.  Calvin could not help from trying shape Christian as he had his other sons, but at the same time he wanted the boy to be himself.  It was an impossible situation; one which I'd had no small part in creating.  "Listen old boy, I'll talk to him, get him to calm down." I patted Calvin on the shoulder, "Some young men need to go and sow some oats you know, he's just one of them."

Christian's father shook his head, "Not that one, never.  It is a wonder he lived here as long as he has."  He pulled away from me and walked around his desk to stand at the window, looking out at the garden with his hands folded behind his back.  I watched him for a few minutes, letting the scene implant itself in my memory.  Slowly I turned and left, shutting the study door gently behind me and heading up the stairs to speak to Christian.  I never saw his father again.

++++++

I found Christian nearly finished packing his battered valise with his few clothes, his typewriter already covered.  "You really want to leave tonight lad?"  He sniffed loudly and nodded.

"I won't put up with him trying to drag me down anymore, trying to fit me into his picture of what I should be."  He cleared his throat and turned to look at me.

"I understand, but do you have a plan?  You can't just leave the country with no idea of what you are going to do."

He nodded, "That's true.  Can you help me?  Where should I go Uncle Len?"

I couldn't have asked for a better opening, "As a matter of fact, I know just the place for you Chris."


	4. Consequences of Not Paying Attention

Disclaimer – See Chapter 1

Consequences of Not Paying Attention

When I began my tale I told you what happened was all my fault.  Its true.  

Oh, sure, there were things that people didn't tell me, things that, if I'd known about them, I could have prevented the tragedy that followed, but they didn't.  And the truth is everyone involved had gotten accustomed to my periodic visits that kept me aware of the problems in their lives.  Over the intervening years I had saved Satine from any number of wretched old monsters that had plagued her life, and I interfered directly to keep Christian from turning into his father.  Now however, Christian had gone to Paris, right to the hotel where Toulouse lived, literally right under him, so I knew it would be no time at all before the insane little creature took control and pulled my nephew into the whirlpool of the bohemian revolution that included the Moulin Rouge and Satine.  I had chosen and groomed them for each other for years, ever since I first read Christian's poetry and heard her sing.  It was just a matter of time.

Everything went according to plan at first.  I did not want Christian to think I had set him up in Montemartre, so I gave him the address of the hotel and left the rest up to him.  Naturally he wrote to me almost immediately, and as everything fell into place at once, I didn't see any reason to intrude.  A week or two later Satine wrote me as well, her letter fairly bursting with happiness like I'd never read before.  For once my plans were coming together without my having to shepherd them along every step of the way. 

They spent the summer in apparent bliss, rehearsing for their play.  Christian would be a success as a writer and Satine would become a star actress, and they would both be happy for the rest of their lives – it couldn't have been more perfect.  I read each letter with a warm glow growing inside me and patted myself on the back for all my clever machinations.  I had no clue that a cloud of darkness hung over their love.

With just two days until opening night I returned to Paris.  Taking up residence in my favorite hotel I went to see my solicitors and make certain that all the arrangements had been made for my surprise to Christian and Satine.  They would have their opening night hit and then I would present them with their wedding present – a charming little apartment in a very fashionable part of Paris.  Then I went to my travel box and slid off into a peaceful sleep to await the night, assured that at last my plans for my family were coming together.

Arising just after sunset I was dismayed by the cold rain that sheeted down from the gray skies.  However, I cheered myself with the thought of my protégé and his love and dressed for the performance.  It was still an hour before the performance would begin, but I decided to arrive early and visit with Satine.  Doubtless Christian would be on hand as well, and I could dispel any nervousness the two felt by distracting them with conversation.  In truth, I also missed the two of them and was eager to see them again.

Though there were several new people working about the Moulin, the bouncers recognized me and welcomed me in.  As I made my way backstage I came upon several of the dancers, now dressed in their harem girl costumes.  While Satine was my favorite, I was friends with most of the other girls, even the sometimes-vicious Nini.  Upon spying me coming up the stairs she hurried to the landing and threw her arms around me, laughing with delight.  "Milord!  Wondered if you was gonna make it tonight."  Her outlandish costume and make-up were no more so than her normal can-can dancer clothes, but she seemed a bit more exotic and oddly enough, vaguely sad – which didn't fit in with her personality at all.

"My dear, I wouldn't miss this performance for the world!  And I daresay, with this place a theatre all your lives are going to improve.  For once, I'm glad to see Zidler's ambition will be good for you girls."  

"Yeah, well, don't know if anythin' good's gonna come outa what's gonna happen tonight ducks, but we'll soon find out won't we?"  She said it in her usual sardonic tone, but there was an undercurrent of pain – as if all her cynical opinions were about to be proven right and she didn't actually like the idea.

"Nini! We got enough bad luck going on tonight without you bringing more in!"  Baby Doll pursed her lips in deep annoyance.  I looked back and forth between the two women and gave the others a cursory glance.  It was clear from their faces, something was deeply wrong here.

I grabbed Nini's arm, "What are you talking about my girl?  You'd best be quick and tell me!"

Wresting her arm from my grip she growled at me, "I've had enough manhandling the last couple days to last me a lifetime!  Go ask your precious diamond if you're so desperate to find out!"  She turned on her heal and walked away with the others following.  None of them looked angry, but some of the glances they threw my way were so solemn as to alarm me to the depths of my very soul.  I turned and nearly ran for Satine's dressing room.

+++++

The door to her new private dressing room was closed, but when I knocked the cheerful voice behind it momentarily belayed my fears as it bade me open the door.  I have seldom been so wrong.  Along with the longevity my condition has granted me I of course have other abilities, and one of them is a heightened sense of smell.  While the predominant scents in the room were perfume and stage paint, there was an underlying odor – one I was intimately familiar with – blood, and its familiar companion, death. And as I stared at her in abject horror, she confirmed my dark fears by giving in to a sudden coughing fit that seemed to drag itself up from her depth of her being and she clasped a handkerchief to her mouth to catch the result.  I was across the room in half a heartbeat, grabbing her hand and the kerchief to stare at the splotches of thick blood, which covered the cloth in her hand.

Still on my knees, I turned my head slowly to look up into her face, a painted face that could not disguise how pale she was. And now tears marred the paint.  I closed my fingers around the hand that held the handkerchief and reached up to cup her cheek, "My darling, how long have you been ill?"

"S-since just before –" She choked and tried to draw a deep breath, but was unable to do so and the rest came out into the barest whisper, "just before Christian came."


	5. The Show Must Go On

The Show Must Go On 

Disclaimer – See Chapter One

Warning – O.k., we may get a little disgusting in this chapter, and it might run a little long, but bear with me, I think it's the second to last one.  

It is difficult to tell you what I felt at that moment.  Anger topped the list.  Satine didn't tell me she was ill, Christian didn't tell me she was ill, and I didn't bother to check up on her.  Sorrow came next.  The pain in my heart threatened for a moment to overwhelm me.  My darling Satine was dying, I could smell it on her.  None of her dreams or my dreams for her would ever be realized, and my dearest Christian would be devastated.  I knew he would be unable to write anything ever again, he would cease to sing, and the bitterness he had inherited from his father would take over.  Encompassing it all was frustration.  Frustration at my lack of attention, at their lack of communication, at the unfairness of it all, and it dawned on me at that moment, that my family was now doomed.  I had not followed or supported any other heirs – those decedents that I knew of had not been bread to be strong and creative as Christian had been. The goal I had set myself of nurturing my sister's heirs had failed.

Covering my distress I quickly rose to my feet and crossed the room to pour wine from the waiting decanter into a glass.  Satine continued to cough and sob behind me as the deep red fluid filled the glass.  Hearing the sound only made my own pain deeper and I wondered idly if the girl planned to make it through the play on sheer will alone. The light from the chandelier made the color of the wine seem to glow, and arrested my vision for a moment.  Suddenly I knew I could help Satine one last time.  I set the bottle carefully back on the table and stole a glance over my shoulder, but she still had her face buried in the handkerchief. Quickly I lifted my wrist to my mouth and bit through the vein, holding it over the glass to let a small stream fall and mix with the wine.  The wound closed almost immediately and I licked it clean.  Turning, I rotated the glass slowly to mix the contents and returned to Satine's side to lay a hand gently on her back.

"Here my darling, drink this, it will get you through the next couple of hours."  Taking the handkerchief from her I took both her hands and wrapped them around the glass.

She looked up at me with those beautiful but red-rimmed eyes, "I don't need this Len, I can manage."  Then she had to take another gasping breath and almost started coughing again.

"Drink, what can it hurt?"

"True."  She whispered and putting the glass to her lips, nearly drained the contents.  When she lowered the glass, there was only a small bit in the bottom, and a swirl of red on the side, looking like a miniature Chinese chrysanthemum.  Gently, I urged her to finish it off, and she raised the glass to her lips and sucked the last of it down.  

She leaned forward, her eyes closed and nearly let the glass drop from her fingers, but I rescued it and laid a hand on her back.  "My darling, are you alright?"

"Yes, actually, I feel much restored!"  Satine lifted her face and looked up at me with wonderfully clear eyes and rosy cheeks.  "Len -" She smiled, "what did you put in the wine?"

I shook my head and made a 'nothing to it' gesture.  "A plant extract I came upon while I was in the East.  Nothing much, and only a temporary solution I'm afraid, but it should get you through the next couple of hours."  She nodded, not really disappointed and I knew it came from forcing herself not to expect much out of life.  Knowing there was no more I could do at the moment, or at least until I located Christian I turned for the door.  "I shall be in the front row my dearest, send some one for me if you need my help again."

Satine nodded wearily to me, looking better, but still not her usual glowing self.  "I shall sing my songs especially for you Len."

I laughed, rolling my eyes, "Don't sing them for me my angel, sing them for Christian."

Her face crumpled again, "I-I can't…he-he's not here…" And she dissolved into tears.

"What do you mean?"  I was beside her again in an instant, on my knees and ripping her hands away from her face.  "Where is he?  Why on Earth is he not here?"

She licked her lips, "I-I sent him away…"

"My God!  Satine, why?"

"Harold said…the Duke would kill Christian if I didn't do his ending to the play and sleep with him."

"Worthless, petty bastard!"  I snarled.  He was now number one on my menu. "But how could you convince Christian to leave?  He would never leave you!"

She closed her eyes and whispered in a voice that contained all the pain that had ever existed in the universe, "I told him I didn't love him, I convinced him it was all a lie."

And suddenly I did not have to wonder why she couldn't breath.  I could see Christian in my mind's eye then – nearly insane with hurt and jealousy.  "Oh Satine, dearest…" I found I could not condemn her for turning him away.

"He meant it Len, he was going to kill Christian, he still might – " She looked horrified at the thought.

I held her tightly and looked her in the eye, "No dear I won't let him. You have my word on that.  Now you had better get ready to put on your show.  Don't worry, your uncle Len will find a way to work things out, I promise."  Satine nodded and sat up straight, lifting her chin, and looking at herself in the mirror, redoing her make-up as though nothing had happened, even though I could see the emptiness that now filled her eyes.

+++++

Winding my way through the paraphernalia of the backstage I nearly ran into Zidler.  His normal overdone showman's attire had been replaced by his overdone maharaja costume.  For a man who was about to see one of his fondest dreams come true, he didn't look very happy.  Instead he looked nervous and upset.  All my rage at the injustice of Satine's illness, the pain it was causing her and Christian, and the ruin it was going to make of my plans suddenly came boiling to the surface and I yanked Zidler completely off his feet by his lapels and shoved him against a convenient wall.

"My lord Fraser!  W-what is the meaning of this?"  He cried indignantly, although he did not struggle.  His frozen posture revealed that he knew perfectly well where my anger came from.

"You stupid fool!  Why did you make this deal with that wretched Duke?  I would have financed the turning of your sleazy little dancehall into a theatre in a minute!  Have you forgotten my ambitions for Satine?  What were you thinking?"  I shook him for emphasis and to keep myself from actually hitting him, which was what I wanted to do.

"The Duke offered to finance the project my Lord.  It seemed an excellent idea – everyone would get what they wanted.  I would get my theatre, Satine would become a star, and the Duke would get rich."

"Really?  And what about the boy?  You forgot about him, didn't you?"  My face was inches from his, and I could smell the stink of his nervous sweat.  The fact that he was a Goliath to my David was not lost on him, nor was the fact that in spite of this I seemed to be holding him up with no effort at all.  For once I didn't give a damn whom I frightened.

He sighed, and the look of true sorrow that made his face droop probably saved his life. "Christian was a last minute substitute.  I knew he would fall in love with Satine, they all do, but I never realized that she would fall in love with him."  Slowly I lowered him to the ground.  While I thought it completely logical that Satine should love Christian (I had, after all, practically designed them for one another), Zidler would never had realized this.  Straightening his clothes I turned away from him, putting one hand to my forehead.  Although I could no longer suffer from headaches I felt the ghost of one trying to attack me.

But Zidler wasn't done with me.  "My lord I must ask…how do you know about Christian?"

"Satine wrote me Harold.  You should know by now I only want for Satine what she wants for herself."  I didn't bother to look up at him, my mind still in a whirl as what to do for my poor doomed children.

"Of course, but why did you naturally assume I would turn to you for help?  My finances are my own."  His tone was slightly defensive and just a little affronted.  For a second I wanted very badly to simply snap his neck.  

I resisted the impulse and raised my eyes to pin him as effectively with my glare as I had with my hands.  "Because I am interested only in Satine's happiness.  How many times have I told you that you had only to ask and I would give it?  Now not only is she doomed to an empty life, but also that life will end much sooner than we expected and the boy's life is ruined too.  And by extension, your Moulin Rouge will be destroyed as well."  My voice had risen at the last until I was nearly shouting.  

"Pride, my pride it seems, has destroyed us all."  He hung his head in misery.

Never one to offer false comfort where it wasn't deserved I only nodded and walked away.  


	6. Curtain Call

Curtain Call 

Disclaimer – See first chapter.

Note – Please review, please?

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love the theatre.  I could sit for hours on end and watch the most trite garbage that ever passed as entertainment and go home with a smile on my face.  Unlike any other playgoer, my bum never gets tired, my hands do not get sore from clapping, and I have no shame at all when it comes to crying or laughing.

It all changed that night.  After Spectacular-Spectacular, I never went to another play ever again.

Satine was marvelous.  No one who did not know she was sick would ever have guessed that her lungs were disintegrating as each golden note flowed from her lips.  The dancers knew, the orchestra knew, even the stagehands knew.  In consequence, the performance was flawless.  Every one of them put their soul into the show – not one dance step was off, not one note was sour, and not one line was wrong.  Even the Argentinean stayed awake.  I was duly impressed, but my heart was in agony, for where was my darling Christian?

I had just begun to think that Satine had succeeded in keeping him away, when Zidler began his final speech about marrying the courtesan, my keen ears picked up voices backstage.  Naturally none of the audience could hear them, but Christian's voice, gone high and raspy when he was upset, was quite clear to me.  The words could not carry over the orchestra or Harold's voice, and I was about to leave my seat and go confront the two of them when the door at center stage opened.

There, for the entire world to see, were Christian and Satine, their faces awash with tears, their eyes radiating anguish.  For the first time in my five hundred years of twilight existence I wished that the creature that had made me had killed me.  It was I who had manipulated their lives to bring them together, and it was I who had left them to fend for themselves.  If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then not only was hell my destination, but the road was going to be well paved indeed.

And then Christian, damn his eyes, went and made it worse.

Dragging Satine down the stage by her wrists he flung her down and turned  – not Zidler as the audience would think – but as I could see, to the Duke, who sat across the aisle from me.  "This woman is yours now.  I've paid my whore!"  He snarled, tossing down the handful of bills he carried.  "I owe you nothing, and you are nothing to me!"  This statement started as a hiss, but ended almost as a sob.  And he couldn't hold it together after that as sobs interrupted his parting statement, "T-thank you for c-curing me of my rid-d-diculous obsession with l-love!" He turned away from her and hurried down the steps, pausing to stare for a moment at the Duke with an expression of mingled disgust and disbelief.  Then he set his jaw and walked down the aisle, not even noticing me.

My gaze being riveted to him, I didn't notice Zidler rushing forward to Satine, or catch what he said to her until they stood. "This sitar player doesn't love you!  See he flees the kingdom!"  She was shuddering and shaking her head, and I again wondered how she was staying on her feet.  "And now my bride, it is time to raise your voice to the heavens, and say your wedding vows."

And that might have been the end of it, but from behind the curtain there was a strange rushing sound, which I identified as sliding rope.  An odd little voice that could only come from Toulouse echoed through the house.  "**The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love - and be loved – in return!**"  

This amazing declaration seemed to give Satine a new strength and she squared her shoulders and somehow drew in a deep breath, turning hesitantly to sing over her shoulder, "Never knew, I could feel like this…its like I've never seen the sky before…" As she sang, amazingly enough, her voice seemed to grow stronger.  Again I felt the cold stab of the realization of my failure – here was a love that could truly live forever, and a few days of closer attention would have saved it. "Want to vanish inside your kiss, every day I'm lovin' you more and more." Now she faced the audience completely and her tears dried as her voice gained potency.  "Listen to my heart, can't you hear it sing?  Come back to me – and FORGIVE EVERYTHING!"  The last echoed through the room with a vibrant power, ending on a gasp as for an instant she lost her breath.  "Seasons may change, winter to spring…I love you…'til the end of time."  She ended it quietly, but with no less force.

And then, softly, but with no less power, from half-way down the aisle came the reply, "Come what may…come what may…Come what may…come what may…I will love you, until my dying day!"  He finished it up beside her, taking her in his arms and pressing his forehead to hers.  She echoed his song and their voices melded beautifully.  As I watched, glorying in their reconciliation, I racked my brain, trying to think of a way to save her and thus, both of them.

Then, pandemonium erupted on the stage.


	7. Pain Like I've Never Known

Disclaimer – See Chapter One

Pain Like I've Never Known 

Even I was not sure what was happening in those last few minutes.  I caught glimpses through the legs of the dancers of a bald-headed man that I later learned was the duke's manservant, Toulouse came sliding onto the stage with a scream babbling about death threats, bohemians caused explosions, and it ended up with Zidler actually punching the duke.  When the curtain finally went down on that last number the audience was on their feet in an instant, howling with mad approval.

I could see that Christian and Satine were both grinning at each other, pressed tightly together.  But after five minutes the audience was still waiting for the curtain call and I knew something was desperately wrong.  Rushing from my chair and up the side stairs, I made it back stage to almost total silence.  Sitting in the middle of the floor, just a few feet from the curtain was Christian.  Satine was sprawled across his lap limp as a rag doll and as I came up beside them he threw his head back and sobbed aloud.  His aguish filled the bare wooden backstage.  All the dancers and stagehands stood frozen in horror at the depth of the tragedy – none of them had ever truly seen a heart break before.

Although he had to work out his grief, I couldn't let him sit there making a show of his destruction for everyone to see.  I hurried to his side, my feet sliding in the carpet of rose petals that covered the floor.  My memory of that moment is forever a mixture of scents - the smell of the dancers, a mixture of greasepaint and sweat, the theatre itself, rope and new wood and fresh paint, Christian, sweat and the salt smell of tears, Satine, too much make-up and the combination of rot and blood.  Overlaying all of it was the scent of the rose petals.  They carpeted every visible inch of floor space, and collected on the shoulders and hair of the spectators watching the tragedy.  Like the Moulin Rouge itself – a decayed rotten soul trying to fake youth and beauty with paint and perfume.  Not unlike myself as well.

I knelt beside them, loath as I was to break that awful tableau, and laid a hand on Christian's shoulder.  He sucked in his breath in a defensive hiss and his wide bloodshot eyes fastened on mine.  We sat silent, staring at each other for the space of three heartbeats, and then he sobbed, "Uncle!" and reached out to me with one hand.  I leaned forward, slipping an arm around him and letting him put his arm over my shoulder while we cradled the fallen courtesan between us.  

"Why Uncle?  Why?"  He whispered into my ear, "I just got her back." His shoulders shook with the force of his weeping.

Turning my head slightly I kissed his temple, "I don't know my lad, if I could answer your question, I'd be the wisest man in the world.  But the time to debate that is not now; let's take her to her dressing room.  We don't want her laying out here on the cold, bare stage."  Of course it was anything but bare, but Christian took my meaning anyway and nodded, sniffling, and together we lifted her up and bore her back to her dressing room.

+++++

Gently we laid the girl on the lounge chair in the corner.  I sent Christian to fetch the wine decanter and leaned forward to examine her more closely.  My senses, of course, are far more powerful than those of an overwrought poet.  Her breath was the barest of flutters, and her pulse weak and thready.  I could save her.  I was not too late.  But what she would become if I saved her…could I condemn her to live as I did?  Looking down at her face, still beautiful, even a breath away from death, I couldn't let her go.

"Here it is U-U-Uncle." Christian gasped as he handed me the decanter.  I held it up to the light, rotating it to swirl the contents so I could see the darker color of the substance I had added earlier.

"I'm going to try and give her a little of this, it seemed to help earlier.  Will you go fetch the doctor?  She is still breathing, although it's very faint."

His hands latched onto my arm with a power I didn't know he had.  "S-S-She's not dead?!" 

I looked up at him, "No Chris, not quite, but get the doctor, we haven't much time!"  He took one anguished look at her, then nodded to me and dashed out the door.


	8. Another Rebirth

Disclaimer – See chapter one

Second Rebirth

The solid click of the door shutting set me off at a feverish pace.  I nearly broke the decanter in my haste to set it down and it made an awful rattling sound on the floor.  I lifted my wrist to my mouth and hurriedly chewed open a vein, letting the dark liquid rise swiftly to the surface, I laid my wrist against her mouth.  At first it just settled on her lips, and I was afraid she was too far gone, but all at once her eyes flew open and she latched onto my wrist with greedy mouth and hands, sucking my substance deep inside.  Before she could have more than a couple of mouthfuls I pulled my hand away and licked my wrist, closing the wound.

She glared at me with resentment that changed in the blink of an eye to confusion that was rapidly descending into horror.  "Leonard!  Mon Dieu!  What, what did you just – you fed me – " Her voice faded as her mind sought to understand what she had just done.

"I've just given you a little time my angel.  You had to be alive for me to save you."

"Save me?  But how?  By drinking your blood!  Len do you have any idea what you are saying?"

I nodded, smiling ruefully, "Oh aye, I do my dearest.  And I've made up my mind that you are not going to die tonight."

She searched my face and saw, I thought, for the first time, what I really was.  Finally my too pale skin, my nearly red lips, my strangely glassy eyes, and the overriding factor that I looked no different than the day she and I had met nearly ten years ago.  Her eyes fastened on my wrist where not one mark, not one drop of blood could be seen, and then she licked her lips, no doubt tasting the last of the blood I had just fed her.  Satine was no stranger to the taste of blood for she had doubtless been consumptive for upwards of six months.  With very careful treatment and gentle, clean living a consumptive person can live for years with the disease.  But living as she had been, in the dank cellars of the Moulin, drinking heavily, using her voice constantly, she shouldn't have lived as long as she had.  Love really is a powerful force.

But not powerful enough.  Even as she tried to make sense of what was happening, I could see her breathing becoming labored again.  Watching her lying there, still beautiful, her rich hair spread about her, her blue eyes bright, I thought of another woman I'd seen in this position, long ago.  Perhaps that woman is the reason I have manipulating the lives of my sister's descendants for nearly 500 years.  Christian is not the first young man to fall completely in love with the wrong sort of woman; I too once lost my heart to a member of the oldest profession.  

Like Satine, Matilda was both a prostitute and an actress.  And like her, Matilda was beautiful and strong – intelligent enough not to want to live her life as a humble nobody, while at the same time knowing what the life she had chosen would do to her eventually.  Her living conditions were even worse than Satine's and I did not yet have the means to give her something better.  Still, she always had a smile for me and even when she was injured from a brutal customer, or near collapsing with exhaustion, she could make light of her situation.  When she was hurting the most she was able to make me laugh.  I loved her with all my heart.

Love of Matilda drove me to build my wealth.  I chose victims for their money and invested it or bought property with it.  And while I built my fortune, I protected her the best I could by destroying any and all of her customers that dared to raise a hand to her.  It didn't help one bit in the end, I simply was not fast enough, or my vigilance lapsed at just the wrong moment.  I went to see her one Sunday night knowing that this was her slow night and we would have plenty of time to spend together.  When I opened the door, the scene before me was the stuff of nightmare.  There was Matilda, hanging from the arms of her last customer, the man who had nearly finished beating her to death.  Her nose was broken, blood covered the bottom half of her face, one arm hung at an odd angle, limp and useless, but the worst of all was the way she was clutching her middle with her good arm, the internal injuries would be the cause of her death.

Anger consumed me.  I leapt forward and snatched her from his arms, laying her gently on the bed that I only now realized looked too much like the one Satine lay on before me, that I choked back a sob aloud.  I whirled from Matilda to seize her murderer by the throat and lift him off his feet, carrying him to the other side of the room, and slamming him against the wall.

"This how ye git yer pleasure eh?  Swiving the lass is no good enough, ye mun beat 'er to death after?" I never knew which horrified the man more – the sight of my blazing eyes and vicious fangs, or my atrocious accent.  It didn't matter; he never got a chance to tell me.  I squeezed my hand, smiling hatefully up at him, until the bones in his neck snapped. A person does not always die from a broken neck, and it was so with this man.  Suddenly paralyzed, he was still conscious and so he knew the manner of his death as it happened.  I brought my other hand up and using my fingernails, tore out his jugular in one mighty slash.  Blood fountained from the wound and I drank my fill as the light faded from his eyes.  Or rather, I should say, as the darkness of his soul became visible to all.  In all of my long life, his is the death that I regret the least.

When I felt him die, I dropped his carcass on the floor and turned back to my battered Matilda.  Kneeling beside her I gently cupped her cheek, blotting the blood from her nose with my handkerchief.

"My darlin' are ye bad hurt?  Tell me lass, should I be fetchin' a doctor to ye?"  I hadn't any medical knowledge of my own yet and had no way of knowing then that I myself could partially heal her.

Her eyes were glassy with pain, but that didn't hide the fear in them, "Len, you – you killed him!  You drank…dieu no…"  

"He nearly killed you mah love!  What else was ah suppose ta do?"  It was a poor excuse, I knew that, but what else could I say? "Lass ah'm sorry, ah shouldnae…"

She cut me off, "Not drink his blood! Len, what – " She raised her good hand and touched the corner of my mouth, pushing back my upper lip to reveal the sharp teeth, "You're not a – please no! – You're not a vamp-"

I jerked my head away, "No! I-I-I dinna know!"

Matilda opened her mouth to say something else, but it was lost in a rattling cough that brought up blood.  I had seen injuries from fights and brawls before, and I had seen men who had been kicked in stomach die from it.  Leaning back, I quickly loosened her bodice and slid it up to expose her abdomen.  The bruising had already begun to form, and there were odd swellings and soft spots.  It could be hours, it could be minutes, but the woman in my arms was already dead.  Gently, I wiped the blood away from her mouth and then bent to kiss her cheek.  Even in her weakened state she was able to turn from my lips.

"Go, go away.  You are…you are a monster."  Tears welled in my eyes, not just from sorrow, but also from surprise.  I had no idea I could still be hurt so badly.

"Please, Matilda, dinna say tha'!   Ah love you, ah'm sorry.  Ah wanted to tell ye, but ah thought ye'd be afraid."

"And you were right." She pushed me away weakly, "Go, begone foul creature!"

If my heart had not been dead before, her words killed it, for I felt it shrivel up into an empty husk at that moment. I stood up, letting her go gently and whispered, "You could – could come wit' me…Ah could make, could change ye…" Her eyes opened fully for the last time and she stared at me in horror.

"You would make me a creature like yourself?  Was that your plan all the long?  Worm your way into my heart so you could change me into a demon companion for yourself?  You fiend!  Never!  I shall never-" Her diatribe ended with a sickening cough that literally tore her insides to shreds. "Neverrr…" Her eyes rolled back in her head and her body arched up in a tight curve of pain for the space of a heartbeat.  Then she relaxed; her last breath bubbling out of her along with a froth of blood and the life vanished from her limbs.

I could do nothing.  Standing there, frozen, I knew I had failed completely.  Not only had I been unable to protect her, but I had lost her forever by showing her what I was.  How much time passed I cannot say, but at last some part of me realized that time was passing and forced me to move.  Slowly I went to her and closed her eyes with one trembling hand.  Then I pulled a blanket from the end of her bed and covered her with it.  I froze again, just for a moment to look at her face, the face of the only woman I had ever loved, then I laid the blanket over it and never looked at it again.

Now I saw the same horror on the face of my darling Satine, and the heart that she and Christian had slowly reawakened froze and whimpered, terrified that it would be broken once again.  But the thought of my nephew gave me courage.  My sister's family was what kept me sane through all the long years of my existence.  I would not let this happen.  He would not suffer as I had.  This young love would not die.

"Yes Satine, that is exactly what you are going to do.  It is the only way you can go on living.  It is the only thing that will save Christian."

That did the trick. "Christian!  What are you talking about?  He's not sick!  He can't die, he has to go on…"

"Without you?"  I shook my head. "Maybe for a while, a few months, but he won't make it.  I heard his cry when he thought you were dead.  If jealousy could drive him mad, what will your death do to him?"

She whimpered and tears ran down her cheeks, "But Len, I can't consent to this!  H-he wouldn't want me to chose this…" I could see her wavering, but I knew what the guilt would do to her if she said yes.

"Then don't say yes Satine.  It is too late to argue about it anyway, the choice is made for you."  She opened her mouth to deny me, but I didn't let her.  I was holding her already and she was terribly weak. I tightened my hold on her waist with one hand, and with the other, cupped the back of her head to tilt it back, exposing her neck to my teeth.

I've said before that my victims are those who deserve death, or those who are close to it.  Satine was indeed close to it, but she did not deserve it, and such victims are rare for me.  She resisted at first, by she had grown so feeble, that it was easy to hold her down.  When I had drained her just to the point of death, I pulled away, gently kissing the wound I had made, closing it as though it had never been, and again bit into my wrist to feed her my altered blood.  She tried to turn away after the first few drops had passed her lips, but she was still too far gone to resist and I pressed my wrist tight to her mouth.  Just when I felt she might actually deny me my victory, her hands suddenly clawed into my arm and she sucked on the wound for all she was worth.

I pulled away just in time.  She was just sinking down into that near-death state that one enters before the change is complete, and I had pulled my sleeve over my wrist as the door slammed open and Christian arrived with the doctor.  The man went directly to Satine and I stood, taking two steps back and holding Christian's arm to give the doctor room to work.  Of course, it did no good.

"I'm sorry mousier, Mademoiselle Satine is gone."

Christian's face crumpled in on itself and he clutched my arm.  "Nooo!  Uncle, you said…she can't be…"

"I'm sorry my boy, there was nothing any one could do."


	9. What happened to the Duke

Ok, so shoot me.  One of those pieces that come to you suddenly months after you've finished the actual story took hold of me and demanded to be written.  As I had thought my muse on permanent vacation, I welcome this bit of oddness.

**What Happened to the Duke**

There are any number of my kind who have...how shall I put this...gone feral?  It's easy really.  The condition which affects me, that gives me long life but takes away the sun, that gives me eternal youth but forces me to drink blood to exist, also takes away, in varying degrees my humanity.  

Keeping my link to my sister's descendants gave me both a purpose and a connection to humanity that few of my fellows can maintain. While others slowly loose there family and friends and become outsiders in the human world, I stayed in contact with my sister and then with her children and theirs, and so on. The necessity of shepherding them through famine and war, stupidity and inbreeding, saved me from loosing my essential self.  That's not to say I have not changed over the years, that cannot be helped, but I have not given in to my darker impulses.  For the most part.

I left Christian alone with Satine that night.  She would not rise until the following night so I had nothing to worry about on that score.  He obviously wanted to be alone to mourn. Toulouse could be counted on to sit there completely unobtrusive and keep watch so our impulsive poet could not turn into Romeo and follow his ladylove to the grave.

Outside the Rouge, hundreds, nay thousands of footprints of the delighted playgoers marred the new snow.  Truly they had seen something 'Spectacular'; they just did not know how spectacular it truly was.  Zidler would keep the story out of the papers at least until morning.  I took a deep breath and could literally smell the excitement and happiness of the audience.  Each falling snowflake held a tiny spark of joy at having seen something truly wonderful.  With a terrible ache in my heart I knew that these few hundred had been given a priceless, once-in-a-lifetime gift, gift that thousands, no millions should have shared in had been destroyed by a tiny organism and one man's childish greed.

That was when I sensed it. Amid the dancing flakes was a single dark trail of anger and defeat.  It was so strong I half wondered why the snow did not melt along the path laid down by rage and vengeful thoughts.  Oh yes, the one person who did not enjoy the show.  The Duke.

The Duke.  Without him my beautiful Satine would not have had to live a double life and hide her illness.  There would have been a chance to treat her.  If not for him my darling Christian would have had not only his successful play, but also dozens of others, and books too.  This creature had destroyed my plans with his childish greed.

Stretching out with my senses, sight, smell, and that faint tang of evil thought I could almost taste, it was simple to find the Duke's trail.  His mansion was enormous and in a fashionable district just as one would expect.  What I had not expected was its proximity to my home - just two houses away.  A moment's investigation located the servants' entrance and I slipped past the few that lingered in those precincts with a gesture, a word or a glance that insured that all of them could truthfully say that they saw no one enter the house.

I heard him long before I saw him.  The door to a well appointed library stood ajar and the Duke paced within.  He strode up and down the rich brown carpet gesturing to the air.  In one hand he held a snifter half full of brandy in the other a piece of paper that he waved back and forth to accentuate his argument in spite of the fact that he was alone.

"The gall!  The unmitigated gall!  To claim her before them all, right in front of me!  How dare he humiliate me in such a fashion!  I'll ruin them; I'll ruin them both!  Not only will I take Zidler's beloved Moulin, when I'm done he won't be able to own so much as a street cart!  And that wretched boy!  English writer my ass!  Not only will his play never show again, neither will anything else he ever writes, and he'll never publish a word, not here or anywhere!"  He spun on his heel and flung the glass into the fireplace.  The glass shattered like a bomb and a great wave of flame shot up over the mantle, leaving a trail of black soot and blistered varnish.

With all the time I've been granted the one thing I've learned is when to make my entrance.  I walked in right on cue. "I don't think so."  The room, on closer inspection appeared to be a game room, a pool table and card table in immaculate condition filled one end of the room, while two leather armchairs flanked the fireplace.  I helped myself to a glass of brandy, and seated myself in one of the chairs.

The Duke's eyes bulged in astonishment and then narrowed with rage.  "Who are you?  Leave my house at once!"

I took a sip of the brandy - it was quite excellent  "At the risk of repeating myself, I don't think so." Smiling up at him calmly I set the glass on the table and crossed my legs.

"You have no right to barge into some one's home in the middle of the night sir.  I insist you leave, now."  He turned to the doorway and called out, " Warner!"

"Ah, I wondered if you'd left that thug behind at the theatre or brought him home.  Thank you for informing me."  I turned to watch the door and sure enough, the man came scurrying in.  Had I not be so angry I would have found it humorous to see such a bulky man scurry.  I sighed, took another sip of my drink, and rose to my feet.

"Warner, show this...gentleman to the door."  The Duke sneered.  Warner smiled in anticipation and advanced on me with the enthusiasm of one who loves his work.

I waited until he reached my side and started to take my arm, "Right this wa- " Cutting him off in mid-sentence, I spun him to face me and kicked him in the balls, feeling a definite tearing as the toe of my boot connected with his flesh.  His sentence ended in a groan and he toppled slowly to his side, clutched his injured groin.  

Smiling I reached down and patted him on the head, "You'll wait right there for me won't you?"  He groaned again and I nodded, "Good lad."  Straightening I spun and pinned the Duke with a glare.  "Now that that bit of unpleasantness is out of the way, shall we get down to business?"

The Duke's eyes shifted nervously from Warner to me, and fear flickered across his face.  "Very well sir, what business do you have with me in the middle of the night?"

I grinned and resumed my seat, "Ahh, good.  I hoped you would be reasonable."  I could not help a small chuckle, "To be truthful, I hoped you would be completely unreasonable, but I'm adaptable."

Watching me carefully, he sidled over and seated himself in the other chair.  "That is yet to be seen.  What is it you want from me?"

"Three simple acts are all I require of you.  To cancel your plans for Zidler and our penniless poet, give Zidler back his deed and do nothing else.  Leave Paris and never return."  Finishing off my drink I stood and walked to the fireplace, examining a very nice set of miniature painting decorating the mantle.

He nearly exploded with fury.  His hands gripped the arms so hard if the chair had been cloth it would have torn and he lifted himself partway from the chair with just his arms.  His skin took on a terrible red mottled look and his eyes bulged like those of a frog.  I could barely contain my mirth.  "You are a madman sir!"  He fairly shrieked at me,  "I will do no such thing!  How do you know what has transpired between..." His voice trailed off as he truly focused on my face.  "The boy, you are some relation of the boy!"

I nodded, letting a small chuckle escape my lips.  Odd that no one at the Moulin had recognized our resemblance.  My hair is the same color and my mouth and chin the same shape, though no one has eyes the color of Christian's, they are uniquely his own.  "Yes, he is my nephew, a few generations removed to be sure, but still blood ties us together."  I put my hands together behind my back and paced before the fire.  "Which makes his happiness my paramount concern."  Facing him again, I pinned him with a stare that allowed no argument.

Apparently his desire for revenge knew no bounds for he stood, even under the force of my gaze, and firmed his jaw.  "Never.  That boy stole what was rightfully mine and Zidler aided him covered for him and stole from ME!  His voice rose indignantly and his mouth thinned in determination.

"That is your final say, you will not change your mind?"  I gestured to the man on the floor who had barely moved since he fell.  "Even with the example I've provided you with?"

"Absolutely not!"  He quivered with suppressed rage,  "She made me believe that she loved me!  Zidler promised her to me, and that worthless boy stole her from me!  They will spend their lives paying for what they have done if I have my way!"  He stood firm, I have to give him credit for that.

I shook my head, chuckling softly, "You are the oldest child I have ever met."  In the blink of an eye I closed the distance between us and wrapped one hand around his throat.  I gave him my full smile, the one that revealed what no living person had ever seen.  Horror and terrible comprehension filled his eyes.  I ran my tongue over one noticeably longer eyetooth.  "I hate to tell you this, but I'm not really a human being.  As such, my emotions are not that of a normal man.  If I was, I might feel a tiny bit of sympathy for you, you were used by Zidler to a certain extent.  But I've learned to focus my emotions over the years, and I'd say you have given back ten-fold what you got since the courtesan is dead."

His mouth trembled and he licked his lips, trying I could imagine, to work some saliva onto his tongue.  "Dead?"  He whispered.

"Yes, working on the play, living in squalor, keeping you happy was too much for her.  So there will be no more Spectacular, Spectacular, the Moulin will fold regardless, and my nephew's heart is broken."  I might have let him go as I saw the disbelief in his eyes, but the next words out of his mouth condemned him.

"I'm glad, the duplicitous whore got what she deserved."  He sneered.

I tightened my hand under his chin and lifted him off his feet as I laughed,  "Thank you my dear Duke, I almost thinking I should go easy on you for a moment."  He squealed and kicked his feet, eyes bulging with fear.  I shook my head in disappointment.  "I did warn you."  Lowering him to the ground, I set him gently in one of the chairs and held down one of his hands.  Grinning, I turned my head to meet his eyes as I broke the first finger.  "Do you know how many bones there are in the human body?" I asked over the sound of his screams.  He gibbered, unable to actually speak,  "I did not think so.  Not to worry, I won't break them all; if I did that it would likely kill you.  And I'm quite fastidious about the blood I drink- I never drink from the dead."


	10. And Then One Day

And Then One Day

The funeral was elaborate to say the least.  Besides all the dancers and various employees of the Moulin Rouge, half the population of the upper reaches of Parisian society was there as well.  Well, the male half anyway, and I devoutly hoped that Satine had not slept with all these men.  They did, however serve two important purposes.  Chiefly, they honored the memory of our fallen courtesan, apparently it wasn't just her looks they were enamored of, and secondly, they served as a distraction for Christian.  He was unable to drown in despair with the fire of jealous rage burning through his veins.

And money really can buy almost anything.  In the week following her death my employees and a small army of hired masons had managed to put up one of the most magnificent crypts in the cemetery.  White marble columns rippled with veins of gold and red held up a roof of the same material and surrounded a building covered with chiseled roses and cherubs.  It was a work of art and I was immensely proud of my people.

It was a shame the thing was empty.  I had done some fast-talking and used all my mental powers to convince Zidler and the mortician that the funeral should be a closed casket affair.  When I painted the picture of Christian making a spectacle of himself to Zidler he finally agreed to skip the viewing of the body.

I am told that they still had to hold him back from throwing himself on the box and demanding to be entombed along with her.  My chief valet reported that Toulouse and the boy's other bohemian friends had to hold him between them to keep him away from the coffin.

Satine, in fact, was asleep in a different coffin right beside mine in the room I had especially designed for that purpose.  Each night she awakened before me and was gone until after I had returned.  The only reason I knew this was because the servants saw and waited on her and reported it back to me.  Once I taught her how to feed, she would have nothing to do with me.

So we divided our time awake without any discussion whatsoever.  She would awaken first (at least she would get up and get dressed first, I would remain in my box until I could hear that she was safely gone) and go out to feed and shop and do whatever she needed to do.  Then I would go out and feed if necessary and then go visit Christian.  I brought him food, made sure his bills were paid, got him out of bed and back at his typewriter, got him to go out with his friends once in a while, and whatever else was necessary to maintain him.  After he went to sleep, when ever that was, I would leave and do my nightly business for an hour or so, and then go home, and read or go over my account books, anything to not think about the two of them for a while.  I knew as soon as I left she would arrive.  My leaving was her signal that he was safely asleep and she could go and watch over him.

I know that once or twice Toulouse saw her, but by then he was sickening himself and it was just a matter of time before I would have to build another mausoleum next to Satine's.  Only this time, it would have an actual occupant.  He told me of his sightings, but he decided for himself that it was either his own delusion or, if it was something else, it was entirely beneficial.

And then one day, as Christian would have us believe, I went to his room to find that he had finished the story.  The sheets of paper that had covered the walls had been collected and lay in a neat pile next to the typewriter.  The machine itself still held a single sheet of paper, but I ignored this.  In spite of the earliness of the hour, my nephew was fast asleep on the bed.  He had fallen asleep again with his hat on, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball, the hat coming loose from his head to be trapped against the pillow and further crumpled into a disreputable mess.  His face was at last in repose.  Sorrow had drained his waking face of all its innocence and much of its charm.  But asleep that sweetness returned, and I wished fervently that I could find some way to bring it back to his waking self.  Using the back of one hand, I reached out and stroked his forehead, brushing the thick hair back from his forehead. Even in deep mourning, smelling like old sweat and sour wine with two weeks growth of beard, he was endearing.

At that moment I realized that it was difficult for me to tell whether the stink in the room was predominantly from Christian or the garret itself.  Empty bottles of absinthe lay on top of furniture along with other bottles that contained the dregs of cheep wine.  Half-burned stinking tallow candles crowded against books that were damp with mold from the leak that ran down one corner of the room.  Unwashed clothes were strewn across every available space and several plates of half-eaten food had attracted mice and their unique odor as well.  I had become accustomed to the stench and had ignored it in favor of supporting Christian in his need to write.  The writing had kept him going and I was not about to interfere in that.  Now, however, the book was actually finished, and I was bound and determined not to spend another night in this sewer without attempting to set it to rights. 

Leaving the boy safely asleep, I hurried down the stairs and issued my orders to my waiting manservant. In less than an hour, all of my servants and some others they had hired along the way arrived to makeover my nephew's hovel into a livable abode once again.  I followed them up the stairs and while my housekeeper was marshaling her troops in the corridor, I went back inside and whispered in Christian's ear, insuring that he would remain sleeping until I awakened him.  Four of the men, one at each corner, lifted the mattress from the bed and carried it poet and all, out into the hallway.  Some one brought me a chair, a book, and a glass of wine, and I sat out in the hall with my sleeping nephew while my army did battle with the filth.  

Just over two hours later the door opened again and my housekeeper arrived to inform me that the room was presentable again.  I followed her inside to inspect it, and as usual, bowed to her ability to create order out of chaos.  Every surface sparkled.  The refuse and ruined furniture were gone, the leak repaired and the wall cleaned.  Two of the chairs had been replaced, and a new mattress, covered with clean sheets and spread, had replaced the old one.  All of Christian's clothes had been replaced, the old taken away to be cleaned or burned, whichever was necessary.  The garret was cleaner than it had been when the building itself had been built.  

At the housekeeper's direction, a large bathtub had been brought in and filled with near boiling hot water. The men carried Christian back in, mattress and all, and set him next to it.  With one of them assisting me, we lifted him up and dumped him, stinking clothes and all, into the water.  He came up sputtering in surprise, then saw my face and shouted in fury.  "Uncle!  What is the meaning of this?  What is going on?"

For such an intelligent lad, he could be incredibly dense sometimes.  "It's a celebration of sorts my boy.  You have finished your story so now its time to clean up and let the mice find a new home." 

He wiped water from his eyes, sitting up to regain his balance.  "That was not for you to decide!  Dumping me in a bathtub in the middle of the night, its…its Rude!" 

I could not help laughing, "Christian, rude is the definition of the odor you are emanating.  I suggest you remove and dump those wet clothes in the bucket beside you so we can burn them and then make liberal use of the soap."

Christian picked up the soap and lifted one arm, no doubt intending to hurl it at me.  This unfortunately brought his armpit in close proximity to his nose and of course he took a deep breath in preparation to throw his missile.  He froze with his arm still back and his odd little nose wrinkled up as a look of disgust filled his eyes.  Turning his head he gave a delicate sniff to said pit and then actually coughed, his eyes watering.  "Oh my God!  How can you stand to be in the same room with me?"  He dropped the soap in favor of divesting himself of his filthy clothing as fast as possible.

Turning my back I shook with silent mirth and then stuck my head out into the hallway to order more hot water from the servants.  When I looked around again, Christian was once again immersed in the water, vigorously soaping and scrubbing all exposed surfaces.  

"I'm sorry Uncle, I have not been paying attention to much more than the paper before me."  His face had softened and his eyes were blue-toned, which I took to mean that he was no longer lost in despair.

"That's quite alright.  I cannot begin to imagine the pain you've experienced this last year."  Before I could say more, three of the maids and one of my drivers arrived with more hot water.  They helped Christian into a robe and changed out the water so he could clean himself again and then rinse off the soap.  Before he could argue with her, one of the maids produced a comb and scissors and trimmed his hair, then soaped his face and removed that hideous grow he'd let spring up.  I watched with amusement as she directed the last of the clean up, making sure he was dried and warmly dressed, wet dirty clothes and bathing equipment removed in moments.  I knew my housekeeper would be proud of her protégé.

While Christian made himself comfortable on the bed and I took the chair at his desk, the maid came back with a meal.  I of course just took wine, but she forced the hot soup bread and cheese on him with a look so stern he simply smiled, thanked her and began to eat.  She turned to bow to me and I winked at her.  She grinned and slipped out the door.


	11. Further Consequences

This is the second to last chapter I think.  The last will either be one really long one or two moderate ones.  I still don't know how it ends, but I will end it.  Maybe there will be two endings, I'm not sure. Further Consequences 

Christian smiled a shy smile at me and bent to his meal.  I stood with my glass of wine and went to stand out on his balcony.  The wings of the Moulin's windmill dominated the view.  They sat frozen against the lights of the surrounding buildings and the stars in the black night sky.  With my enhanced eyesight I could see that several of the red light bulbs were broken out and much of the red paint was flaking away.  Trash littered the sidewalk in front of the place; creating little barricades of refuse that deterred no one from entering.  Like myself the Moulin was not completely dead.  'Spectacular Spectacular' had only played one night and no one came to watch or dance with the dancers anymore, but there was still company to be found behind its doors.  The dancers had all gotten jobs elsewhere, I had seen to that, but Zidler himself had to make a living some how. 

It would rise again, just as Satine had.  The question of the whether or not the Duke would take possession of the place had never been answered.  He had 'vanished' the night of Satine's last performance.  My lawyers assured me that when a year had passed ownership of the Moulin would revert to Zidler and he could reopen in any form he chose.  For now the authorities overlooked the sordid but quiet business he and his new girls were doing.  They survived and the Moulin would survive.  

Returning to the room, I found that Christian had eaten most of the soup and had even drunk the tea, but had not touch the other food.  I reasoned that he had eaten so little lately that skipping the bread and cheese was probably a wise decision.  He and the room looked much better and I took a deep breath to enjoy being able to do so in his presence without gagging.  Oddly enough, even though the scent had improved enough that it smelled like a different room, there was still a faint underlying odor that I couldn't place.  It was a rotting smell of some kind, and I wondered if perhaps a mouse had died behind a wall.  Taking my seat before the typewriter again, I resolved to send over my housekeeper again tomorrow night to ferret out the source.

I picked up the sheet on the top of the stack, but before I could begin to read Christian stopped me.

"Please Uncle, don't read it yet.  Let me get it published first, you can have the first copy I promise." He covered his mouth with one hand and coughed lightly.  

"Of course lad, I'll wait.  But don't take too long," I gestured to the considerable stack of paper, "I missed most of this story and I'm eager for the details." My smile was gentle even though I knew it could never convey the sorrow I felt for him.

He answered with a faintly sardonic smile, "Yes, you missed everything."

Any one who didn't know Christian as well as I would have missed the accusatory tone in his words.  I stood and picked up the chair, bringing it over to the side of his bed and seating myself again, crossing my legs and meeting his glare with one of my own.  "Christian I can do a great many things.  I can raise a boy to be true to himself and his dreams.  I give a poverty stricken girl a chance at a better life.  I can bring them together so they can make each other's dreams come true.  I can and did all these things, but I can't stop death – even I am incapable of that."

Ever surprising me, Christian had picked up on a line in my speech I hadn't expected him to.  He sat up straighter and his mouth turned down in a hard thin line. "Give her a better…bring us together…You manipulated us?"  His changeable eyes had turned that storm-gray color that promised harsh judgment. 

"That's not the word I would use but – "

"Oh no!  Not the great Lord McClellan!  He would never interfere in the life of his nephew so that he would fall in love with a whore!  He would never take some poor girl off the streets and turn her into a courtesan – the perfect some one to appeal to said nephew!"  On more than one occasion I had been witness to Christian exercising his temper, but I had never been its focus.  Now he had climbed to his feet, his hands clenched into fists and his teeth bared in a full-blown fit of rage such as his father had indulged in frequently.  Fortunately, I had a great deal of experience in taking the wind out of the sails of said rage when his father exercised it, I had no trouble doing the same with Christian.

"You would not have looked at her twice if she had been some nice respectable girl."

"That's ridiculous!  I – " He froze with his mouth open and his face went quite blank.  Then he turned eyes both sheepish and wounded to me.  "It appears you know me quite well Uncle."

I waved a hand dismissively, "Think nothing of it.  Besides I did consider any number of…shall we say _regular_ girls for you, but when you told me you wanted to come to Paris, I saw a chance for real happiness for Satine, and a way out of her life.  I love both my children."  My heart twisted inside my chest.  Christian was not the only one who grieved, not only had all my plans been laid to waste, but my darling girl hated me now.  I laid a hand on his shoulder, "I am sorry lad, if I had know about her illness, perhaps I could have – "

"- No Uncle!  I shouldn't have gotten angry at you, you couldn't have predicted she would…" He broke off, gulping a breath of air and his face reddened while tears started to fill his eyes. "…get sick." A sob leaked out between his lips that turned into a cough.  My hand remained on his shoulder, so I shifted my grip to his upper arm and held him as whole body shook in a sudden coughing fit.  Sweat popped out on his forehead and he shoved the heel of his free hand against his mouth while he gripped the arm I used to hold him up.  Lowering him back to the foot of the bed I hastily refilled his teacup and held it out as the coughing subsided.  He reached gratefully for the cup as he lowered the handkerchief he'd used while I got the tea.

We both froze.

Decorating the surface of the new, clean handkerchief were several spots of bright red blood.  And suddenly I knew where that faint odor of rot was coming from, and why I'd not noticed it before.  My eyes went back to his face and noted the trickle of blood sitting in the corner of his mouth.

His eyes were very young and terribly apologetic, "I - I'm sorry Uncle."  


	12. When Dreaming Ends

See the first chapter for the disclaimer.  We're almost there folks, and still almost no reviews.  Please, please, please review, even if it's bad I want to hear it. When Dreaming Ends 

Few people realize that much of what was thought to be vampirism for the last several hundred years was in fact consumption.  Oh, you can blame a host of other diseases as well, but consumption fits the classic model best.  The initial victim seems to sicken for no reason.  One day the person is normal and healthy, the next (we'll say she just to make it interesting shall we?) she is pale and coughs all the time.  The victim faints frequently, loses her appetite and grows thin and weak.  It can be months, it can be years, with periods of seeming recovery, but then at last she succumbs and dies.   Then, often, shortly after she dies, if she has a husband or lover he will begin to grow weak as well.  He will tend to bruise easily and there are often bloodstains on his clothing or bed linens from coughing. It fits the classic scenario and I have seen others of my kind who are completely innocent of feeding on the victims executed unjustly for those carried off by disease.  I've made it my business to stay well clear of outbreaks of the disease for the obvious reason of self-preservation.

It now appeared that if God did not have a sense of humor, he at least understood irony.

I could not move nor make a sound.  The spots on the handkerchief turned black and sucked me down into their darkness.  In that place I saw Christian slowly withering away, his boyish face becoming gaunt and ugly.  There would be no marriage to a quiet girl who would heal his soul, no more plays to spark the imagination of a jaded audience, and there would be no children to carry on the family name.  My sister's ten-times-over grandson would die and I would fail in my greatest task.

And I had made it worse.  If I didn't realize that already, Christian promptly pointed it out to me.

"I-I know you had plans for me Uncle, big plans.  I had dreams too, but they all died with her.  At least now we won't be apart much longer, and I won't have to bring about my own demise for it to happen."  At last I was able to lift my eyes from the handkerchief and look him in the eye.  He was calm and relaxed, at peace even.

"You are not going to die Christian, not yet, I won't have it.  We will take you out of this hole, go somewhere warm and dry and give your lungs a chance to heal, then we will visit a doctor friend of mine-"

"It won't do any good, I'm too far gone to heal."  He smiled serenely and I wanted to slap him silly.

"You don't know what you are talking about!  There are many medicines we can try and many doctors we can go to, you can't just give up-" I was pacing back and forth, desperately trying not to listen to his labored breathing, or smell the odor that was signaling the angel of death.

"She's been to visit me."

My head whipped around and I stared at him.

He nodded and continued, "She's been waiting for me to finish the story.  All that's left now is to publish the thing and my task is done.  She'll come for me, just like Aunt Mattie said."

"You don't know what you are talking about lad…just what did Matilda say to you?"

"Surely you know this Uncle?  When you are visited by the ghost of your lover for seven nights in a row it means death is coming for you."  The only way I could describe the tone of his voice was _relieved_.

"That's superstitious nonsense!  And when has Satine visited you?  It must have been a dream."

His calm was undisturbed.  "She comes every night and sits watch over me Uncle.  I go to sleep and if I awaken in the night, there she is, sitting on the bed or the chair, just watching me."

I didn't doubt it for an instant.  In fact I had watched her do it from another building across the street.  Still, I was willing to bet most of my considerable fortune that she didn't know the vigil she was keeping was a deathwatch.  Her motive was the same as mine – care for Christian until he finished the book.  Turning from his face, the face I now saw had grown so like hers near the end, I looked down at the final page of the story.  It sat alone in the typewriter and contained only four lines:

            _Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and then, one not so very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story - a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people, but most of all, a story about love - a love that will live forever._

_The End._

He meant of course that because he had written it down the story would live forever.  I looked up at him from my place by the desk, and found we were no longer alone.  We had left the door to the flat open and I could see out into the hallway from where I stood.  Standing framed in the door was Satine.  She narrowed her eyes in fury at me and her voice echoed in my mind, irritated with me that I was still with Christian.  Her extraordinary beauty was disguised to the average man by men's clothes and a heavy cloak with a deep hood, the shadow of which kept her features hidden.  But not to me of course, I could see into that darkness to perceive the anger snapping from her brilliant eyes.

I smiled gently and said aloud, "There's no need for caution anymore my dear; he's seen you many times."  She took a step back putting a hand to her chest in alarm, but Christian had seen me stiffen at her appearance and now he sprang up from the bed to confront her.

"Satine…" He whispered, his voice that of a man who has seen his god spring to life before his eyes.  They stared at each other for what felt like hours and then he reached out and carefully took her hand.  I could see he expected his fingers to pass right through her flesh as though she were made of smoke.  When his hand met solid flesh he jerked it back and then grabbed both her hands hard in his.  "You…you're alive?  How? I-I d-don't understand…" And because I had suddenly become a cosmic joke he turned to **me** for an explanation.

"Yes Leonard, tell Christian how it is I came to be here."  She lifted her chin and raised one of her brows, challenging me to explain to my nephew the unexplainable.

The one piece of advice I remember my father giving me came to mind and I sighed and seated myself in the chair once again. _'When in doubt lad, tell the truth.' _ It had been good advice then, it was good now, but just springing it on him in one sentence seemed cruel.  "Christian, how old am I?"  He looked completely confused, but found his voice after a moment of hard thinking.

"I'm not sure what that has to do with Satine, but you must be past forty, you said mother was your niece too, but you don't look it, you barely look older than me."  His brow was furrowed in deep confusion and I could see the sweat popping out on his forehead again.

"Sit down lad, this could be a long story."


	13. The History of a Child of the Underworld

See the first chapter for the disclaimer.  This is not the last chapter, even though I thought it would be.  Oh well, for the few of you who have been reading this, especially Beattlebon, thank you!  It really means a lot when you take the time to do so.  I wanted to point out something that a friend noticed that I didn't even see as I was writing this.  Leonard is the name of Baz's father who died right near the end of Moulin's production.  I must have unconsciously picked that up when I named him, or perhaps it's not Christian who's being haunted…but me.

The History of a Creature of the Underworld 

Christian made no move to sit and I turned my gaze to Satine, imploring her to act.  She nodded to me and slipped an arm around him, guiding him to sit on the bed.  She didn't let go of the hand he clasped and when they sat he pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her, accepting without a word her return to life.  He simply trusted me.  All his life I had made things happen, appeared when he was lost or had no hope.  Now she had returned to him and I had something to do with it, so he would trust me again to make everything clear. Closing my eyes, I opened my mouth and told them my own tale.

"I first came to Paris in 1477, during the end of the war of the roses.  Scotland was the ally of France and so it only seemed natural that I would avoid the strife in England and come here to become a gentleman knight.  Well, that was the plan my family had, but I wanted nothing to do with fighting and all that foolishness.  I might have grown up amongst warring clansmen, but damned if I was going to be one.  For all the spring and summer I wasted my days in taverns and gambling houses and my nights with whores."  I winked at Satine just so I could see her face go red with anger and laughed softly, "Oh yes my dear, you're not the first courtesan I've loved, just the one I've loved best."

Standing, I walked out to the balcony and looked across again at the windmill wings.  They followed me and I looked over my shoulder at their white faces and thought again how beautiful they both were; my darling children, how I loved them so!

Christian moved up beside me and put a hand on my arm even as he kept one around Satine. "Tell the rest Uncle, it'll be dawn in a hour or so."

Oh yes, I thought, and my tale must be told before then.  "We seem to have a common problem my boy, brothels have always been my downfall as well."  Satine bristled again, but I smiled at her affectionately, "We go of our own accord my dear, with no malice towards the girls – am I right Chris?"

He smiled at me and turned back to her, "Yes, yes you are Uncle."  He cupped her cheek in one hand and she closed her eyes, resting her head in his palm with a smile.  

"Honoria owned my favorite house at the time."  I looked away from them and continued, "The brothel district at that time was not this hill, where they used to make flour, but down by the river and there were dozens of them.  Hers was the best by far.  The girls were the best cared for, the food and wine some of the best in the city, and the entertainments to be had within the very finest.  Even though Honoria was the madam, she was the best.  Not the most beautiful, but certainly the most interesting and I could not get enough of her company.  Unlike many of the foolish young nobles who came to her house, I was lucky at the cards, and willing to stay up all night just talking to her.  After a while it got to be a joke among my friends that I spent most of my time at Honoria's house talking to Honoria.  And then I met Matilda and made the mistake of making Honoria jealous."

I turned again from the view and looked Christian in the eye.  "Making a woman jealous is always a mistake.  Even if you do it unintentionally, the wound is far greater than the one a man suffers.  My feelings for Honoria didn't change, I still loved her, but I'd loved her the way that I love Satine – as a friend, as a confidant.  You my darling, I think of as a daughter, Honoria I thought of as an aunt.  I didn't care that she was a whore, she was interesting and funny, and if I sensed a certain, shall we say, _darkness _about her persona, I just assumed it was due to her profession.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think she felt anything more than friendship for me."  I had been looking at Christian through this description, now I turned my eyes to Satine, "You can imagine her reaction when I told her about Matilda."

"Oh yes, I'm certain I can."  Her tone was mildly ironic.  For Christian's benefit she asked, "Angry was she?"

"Unbelievable so!  And I in my youthful ignorance went blithely on and on about all of Matilda's amazing qualities."

"Oh dear," said Christian, the master of the understatement, "How is it you're still alive?"

I laughed softly, "Well that's just it my boy, I'm not, not really."

He stared at me, his mouth unbecomingly open, and then he looked away, adding up all that I'd said and realization struck him hard.  He took an involuntary step back from me and then whipped around, staring at Satine.  A little slow to reach his destination was my nephew, but once he got to the first step, he could get to the top of the stairs in an instant.  He took a step back from both of us, looking first at me, then at her, "No, it can't be – You can't be – and you did it to…Satine…" His eyes were wild and his breathing ragged as he reached out with one hand to her whimpering a denial over and over

Her own eyes were swimming in tears and she took his hand, just grasping the ends of his finger as if afraid to touch him, but more afraid not to be touching him.  He bared his teeth and gave a fierce growl of denial, drawing her close and pressing one hand to her neck.  

I shook my head, turning away, "You won't feel anything Christian; water, air and food are no longer the things that sustain her."

"Uncle no…"

"Mmmm…I'm afraid that's not true either, or well it is from a certain point of view."

"A certain point of view?" His tone was both sarcastic and painful.

I nodded, "You will find, as you get older, that many of the truths we cling to are not true at all, when viewed differently.  I'm your uncle yes, if you add ten or so 'greats' on before the title."  I sighed deeply and turned to face him again.  "I angered Honoria and hurt her, and she punished me for making her believe that I loved her." I saw Satine flinch out of the corner of my eye, "It was unintentional of course, but she gave her love so seldom, and every time she had been hurt.  I think she knew in her head that I loved her just as a friend, but her heart wouldn't listen, and I paid the price for my thoughtlessness"

"And so you've decided to pass on the favor!"  It was Satine who crossed the distance between us and slapped me as hard as she could.  All the anger she'd been holding back these past months suddenly came boiling out and her fury stunned both the poet and myself.  "You had me to talk to and Christian to play with, but I was dying and you'd have no one to talk to is that it?  Or are you like Harold?  So concerned for what I look like and what I can give you, that you fail to see **me**?  Don't you realize what you've done?"  She pointed to Christian and her face crumpled in tears, "He'll be…oh my love…he'll be dead in a month, and I'll be, Oh God!  I'll be trapped here!  We'll be apart forever!"  She hugged herself, making those awful screaming sobs of hers that tore at my heart.

Christian had been horrorstruck when realization hit, but his instincts kicked in and he went to her, pulling her close, trying not to cough, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth while trying to hold her with the other arm.  I couldn't watch them anymore.  

She was right, I thought, as I went back inside and sank into the desk chair once more.  They would be apart now, not just until he died, but for always.  Just like Matilda and myself.

Just like Matilda and myself…

I looked over at the sheet in the typewriter – _A love that will live forever _

On the balcony stood the dying boy holding up the despairing courtesan.  Could I give up my dream for Christian and give him back his own?  Could I do for them what Matilda would not let me do for us, she and I?  Yes, I thought, I absolutely could.  They might hate me, they might not, but they wouldn't hate each other, and they would be together.  That was all that mattered. 

With a purpose I strode out onto the balcony and forcibly pulled them apart.  Satine had no trouble keeping her feet, but Christian stumbled and would have fallen if I had not held him tightly.  Looking over his shoulder I met her eyes and she knew what I meant to do.

"No Leonard!  Don't condemn him to this life, please!" She begged me desperately, but she didn't move, knowing that she was not strong enough to stop me.

Christian looked up at me, stunned by what was happening and the speed at which I'd moved.  His knees sagged and I held him up with one hand, brushing his hair back with the other, "My boy I'm glad we found out you were sick before you wasted away to nothing.  Look on the bright side," I said as I held his face gently in one hand, "You will never have to shave again."  

His eyes, which had been at half-mast as he tried to focus them, suddenly snapped to attention and he gasped, "Oh…!"

I gently turned his head to the side and sank my teeth into the pulsing vein in his neck.  The blood quickly filled all my senses and some dim part of me that was only vaguely aware felt Satine tugging on my arm and heard Christian moan.  It was just minutes before daybreak when I lifted my mouth from his neck and peered down at him.  He was so pale as to be almost transparent.  Lifting him to my chest, I carried him inside and was only mildly aware that Satine had followed me in and dragged the heavy curtains closed.  I cradled him on my lap and in that moment, was ready to let him go.  He would just go to sleep and never waken.  I could send Satine on after him, there were ways to kill our kind, and it was just difficult.  Perhaps I could even join them…

She stood with her back to the windows, in the dim light I could still see the fire of her hair, the brightness of her eyes…no, I couldn't let the boy die.  Raising my wrist to my mouth, I slit the vein and held it over his mouth, letting the drops land on his lips.  He stirred and licked it off, and then he grabbed my arm and latched onto the wound like a starving wolf.  With a surprising growl he drank with a ferociousness I'd never seen and in less than five minutes I began to feel weak.  I jerked my hand out of his grip and glared at him in annoyance.  "Greedy child!  You'll have to learn some control."

Sliding him off my lap I stood and moved to the door.  "Stay with him Satine, he'll be confused when he wakes up this evening.  I'll make sure there's a guard at the door so you will not be disturbed."

She nodded, going to his side. "Thank you Leonard."

"Think nothing of it."  I turned to open the door, as my heart crumbled to bits.

Christian stopped me, "Uncle, where are you going?"

"Away for awhile my lad.  Paris is yours now.  Satine will show you what to do.  Stay away from the Moulin Rouge, but other than that, the city is yours."  I opened the door to the thankfully black hallway.  Turning back just as I stepped out I caught his eye.  He was holding Satine, a look of wonder on his face.  Our eyes met and he mouthed the words 'thank you'.  I could not stay; I could see already that he was changing.  If I could barely stand to see it in her, I would never be able to look at him again.

Perhaps, after a century or so, I could see them again.  We could be friends.  They would have had far more time than any other couple and that happiness would help us to put our past behind us.

++++++

Well?  Loved it? Hated it?  Let me know with a review.  I have an epilogue in mind, possibly two, we'll see.  :}


	14. Tell Our Story

Tell Our Story 

I know, it has taken me forever to write this epilogue, but distractions in my real life have left my muse too exhausted to write.  So here it is, for all three of you that read this, enjoy…

He knew after just ten steps that he should have hailed a cab.  Walking off the past two hours drinking binge had seemed like an excellent idea when he left the club, but now, he wondered why he'd told Craig to go on without him.  The narrow streets and brick or stone buildings of Montemartre combined with the wet pavement from rain earlier in the day created an excellent medium for echoes. The uneven click of his drunken pace came back to him from the alleys and walls along with a second set of footsteps.  In an attempt to separate himself from the odd double beat of footfalls, he increased his pace and deliberately turned two corners in a row.  This tactic was an excellent ploy when one thought one was being followed in a car, but on foot in a dangerous area it spelled disaster.  Instead of shaking his pursuer, he only succeeded in getting himself lost in less and less populated areas.  

The streets became less well lit and dirtier and more run down.  Now instead of people in expensive clothing walking along laughing and kissing there were a few rare seedy hucksters with dirty playbills trying to get him to come into a club that promised a lot more than just dancing.  None of them noticed the clicking of heels behind him that had now become distinctly separate from his own.  In desperation he began to run, praying that he could get far enough away to get back out to a more populated street and hail a cab.  He was under no illusion that he could actually lose his pursuer.

If he had been sober, he would have undoubtedly come up with a better way to save himself.  Of course, if he had been sober, he wouldn't have gotten into this predicament in the first place.  Running when one is drunk is seldom a good idea.  Rounding another corner he almost ran down a woman in a red dress.  As it was, she actually kept him from falling since she was leaning against a wall and was able to brace herself.  At least that's what it looked like to him.

"Mousier, you should be more careful. These streets here are poorly lit at night and dangerous besides.  This is not the place to go running at night!" she laughed, a sweet musical laugh, that echoed oddly in the narrow alley giving her voice more volume and depth than that of a normal person, at least to his ears, or maybe it was just booze.

"I know all of that!  Some one is following me!  If I wasn't being pursued do you think I would be stupid enough to even be in this part of the city?" He gripped one of her arms tightly in anger, reacting badly to her seemingly flippant reaction to his distress.

She looked at his hand on her arm and then up at him with a glare that would have frozen a less pickled soul.  "If I did not see that you are terribly frightened I would be angry and remove your hand from my arm myself.  However, since I am sympathetic to your plight, I will simply tell you take your hand off me and let you go with no harm done."  She even smiled lightly to reassure him.

But her smile had the opposite effect.  He could not have moved if she had described to him exactly how she planned on disemboweling him right there on the street.  For the moment at least, his fear was forgotten in contemplation of her beauty.  The color of her hair was a cross between flame and ruby even in the faint light from the doorway.  Her eyes were a perfect, brilliant blue - the color of the sky just after sunset.  Long lashes framed those large stunning eyes, which in turn were bracketed by marvelously high cheekbones.  Her nose was a bit upturned and her upper lip was a bit thin, but on the whole these tiny flaws helped to enhance the other qualities and made her seem more real and thus even more beautiful.

"You are…I've never seen…so, so beautiful."  He never stammered, but apparently there was a first time for everything.  She smiled with pleasure and let him keep his hand where it was, but a voice behind him was not so forgiving.

"The lady told you to remove your hand from her arm sir, and I suggest that you do so."  He knew without turning to look that the voice belonged to his pursuer. The voice was hard, but not really frightening, the tone was that of a parent, patiently telling a child one more time to behave.  Clearly this was the last warning he would get before being told to stand in the corner for a couple of hours.

He quickly removed his hand and thrust it and its mate into his pockets, turning to confront his assailant with all the bravado of one deeply intoxicated.  "Yes, you are quite right, forgive me…" His voice trailed off to silence as his eyes beheld the man behind him.  The woman sparkled with bright beauty, her counter part, (for somehow he knew they were together), was the splendor of the night personified.  His hair was the black of the night sky and the streetlights caught highlights of blue-white in it like star.  It framed a face pale as the moon that was surmounted by a luminous pair of eyes that seemed to be both blue and green with flecks of gold highlighting their depths. His strong cheekbones and wide, full mouth, along with a nose just thick enough to be masculine and a firm chin, all combined to make him her perfect counterpart.  

Looking back and forth between them he saw a matched set – the sun and the moon.  Swallowing some of the fear he felt, but none of the awe, he looked at the young man.  "Why were you following me?"

The man scratched the back of his neck with one hand while his other played with the buttons of his old-fashioned waistcoat "I recognized you and w-wanted a chance to speak with you.  Y-you are Baz Luhrman are you not?"  Baz nodded mechanically.  The switch from threatening to hesitant was oddly charming and made the man appear young and sweet.  All at once he seemed slightly unsure of himself and he hesitated. "That is, we wanted-"

"Christian there is absolutely no reason to be nervous.  Len made it quite clear in his letter that this man will do what needs to be done."

"I know darling, but I'm still not sure it will be all that interesting to a modern audience…"

The woman heaved a sigh of impatience, "I'm sorry, you must excuse my husband, he's a little nervous."  So saying, she stepped around Baz and took Christian's hand, nuzzling the palm with her nose, and then sucking his middle finger into her mouth.  The man gasped and his eyes rolled partway back in his head for a moment.

"Satine…d-d-don't, not Owww-AAAhah-out on the street…"

She pulled away, her silvery laughter rippled through the night; she caressed his cheek, "Oh Christian!  You are still such an innocent, even after all this time, that's why I still love you."  Turning back to Baz, she smiled gently, but pinned Baz with eyes gone suddenly cold as ice.  "We need you sir, to tell our story."

"But you must tell it in such a way as to make people believe that it is only make believe, something you dreamed up on your own."  The confidence was back in Christian's voice.  When he acted in his role of protector to Satine he was all bold confidence, but otherwise, he was a bundle of nerves.  

~ The writer and his muse ~ Baz realized with a mixture of wonder and amusement at finding a true example of the old cliché.

"You were going to make a movie about the Moulin Rouge weren't you?" Christian asked hopefully.  Satine was right, the boy's innocence was completely captivating, and despite being both frightened and drunk, Baz smiled up at him.

"Yes I was.  It has such a fascinating history and was the first of its kind in so many ways that I-"

"And yet still managed to make its real money the old-fashioned way." Satine said dryly.

"Well, yes there was a lot of that going on, but it was still something of a phenomenon wasn't it?"   

Christian let go of Satine to gesture grandly, "Oh yes!  It was the first theatre of its kind to use extensive electric lighting and put on real, large scale musical-"

"Christian!"

The young man's shoulders slumped and he dropped his arms to his sides, his animated excitement vanishing in an instant.  "Yes, of course darling."

She slipped her arms around him, pressing her forehead to his.  "Christian, our time to talk to Baz is short, I wish it wasn't because I know you two would be great friends."  She tilted her head to give Baz a smile full of regret and affection. 

Christian nodded and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small box of tapes.  He took the other man's hand and placed the box in it and carefully wrapped Baz's hands around it.  Their eyes met and Baz felt himself wanting to drown in those impossibly colored eyes.  "Tell our story Mr. Luhrman."  Christian lifted one hand and pushed Baz's eyes closed with his fingertips.

From his other side he felt Satine's impossibly cold lips on his throat, "Tell our story…" 

When Baz opened his eyes again he was staring at the ceiling of his hotel room.  He turned his head to find CM lying beside him asleep and breathed a sigh of relief. ~Just a dream~ he thought, ~it was all just a dream~ Rolling over and smiling, he went back to sleep.  

For the next two weeks the rest of their research went smoothly.  By the time they were ready to leave Baz was brimming with ideas and the whole nightmare meeting in the alley was just a strange blur that he assumed was just a manifestation of the whole creative process and his own fixation on the Moulin Rouge.  He even went so far as to tell Craig about the dream.  His writing partner thought it was a wonderful inspiration, but denied that it could have been real because Craig had come back for him just minutes after Baz had walked away.

As they were leaving the hotel, CM did her last sweep of the room to make sure they left nothing behind.  Meeting Baz in the lobby she smiled, "Here you bloody idiot, I swear, I don't know how you plan to make this film without your brain."  She placed the small box in his hand and nodded to the porter, following along behind him as he pushed the cart full of luggage out to the curb.

Baz opened his hand to look down at the small box full of tapes. 


End file.
